


Promises

by JDLehane



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Action, Comedy, Dramedy, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Hawaii, Long-Distance Relationship, Romance, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24058708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDLehane/pseuds/JDLehane
Summary: Life doesn't lead down any one road.Makoto's aiming for her goal.Ren's walking the Earth.Loving each other takes work. It's work worth doing.
Relationships: Amamiya Ren/Niijima Makoto, Kurusu Akira/Niijima Makoto, Niijima Makoto/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	1. Makoto Niijima

**Author's Note:**

> One of the first ideas I ever had for a PERSONA 5 fic was a return visit to Hawaii. That gradually grew into this piece. I hope you enjoy it!

When the knife-wielding man lunged at her, Makoto Niijima was ready. She swept her right foot backward, let his arm pass by her, and slammed her elbow into his back. The man stumbled and struggled to keep from fumbling the knife. Makoto turned to face him, taking a defensive stance. He teetered around, slashing at the air and trying to smile. He wasn’t entirely unintimidating. But that was because he was armed, desperate and dumb. Makoto narrowed her eyes and spoke, clear and cold.

“What’s your name?” The man, 100 pounds of rage and smirks, blinked. The thin strand of menace he’d been clinging to slipped away from him completely. Now he was just a confused, dangerous, creep in cargo shorts and a t-shirt advertising a martial arts school that had been shut down for fraud. She’d worked on the bust.

“What?”

“I asked for your name. Because when I want to tell someone that they’re facing a pivotal moment in their lives, I want them to listen.” Makoto slowly advanced on the man, keeping her stance. He shakily raised his knife towards her. If he chose to attack from his current position, there were several ways he could do so. Closing the distance between them was a risk. But it was a calculated one. If she did this right, Makoto would be able to neutralize the threat without anyone getting hurt any more than they already were. And she knew how to do it right.

“Let me make this clear for you. You’ve attacked three people with a knife tonight. You’ve physically injured one of them. You’ve likely inflicted traumatic stress on two of them. And now you’re cornered and trying to stab the third. I’m a police detective. You know that I know how to fight. And I think you know that you don’t.”

“I KNOW HOW TO FIGHT,” The man yelled. He tried to use his free hand to steady his knife hand and managed to make himself even shakier. “I’M! A! CERTIFIED! GRADE-TRIPLE-X! BADASS! I STUDIED UNDER SENSEI RAZOR!” Makoto wanted to roll her eyes. But she was working. She would roll her eyes when this was done.

“You may know you’re a badass. But you also know that there is exactly one way this ends well for you. I want to help you get there. And I’m going to stop you from hurting anyone else. Put the knife down.” She continued to advance on the man, ready to move if she had to.

“What, what the hell does that mean?” The man asked, trying to aim the knife. “You’re want to let me go?”

“No, I do not. I want you to answer for the harm you’ve caused. And I don’t want any harm to come to you.”

“Yeah, right. You’re a cop. And you don’t want to hurt me. And you’re a fucking cop?” The man laughed bitterly.

“It’s a calling,” Makoto said. “And it seems we have some common ground.” The man looked confused now.  
  


“…The hell do you mean?” She was close. Soon she’d been in range to disarm him.

“I’m saying that I agree with you. At their worst, police exist to brutalize people and call it ‘lawful.’ And even when they aren’t at their worst, there are a thousand ways for the police as a whole, for departments, for individual officers, to be rotten and venal. I aim to change that. And I aim to do the job as well as I can. I will not allow you to hurt anyone else tonight. Put the knife down.” The man stepped backward, tried in vain to put some force into his stance. He was flailing now. Makoto could work with flailing. She stared into his eyes. He stared back.

“Your eyes… Shit, who are you?”

“My name is Niijima Makoto. You still haven’t told me yours. Put the knife down. Now.”

Shivering, the man slowly knelt. His arm still outstretched, he lowered the knife and dropped it. His hand still shook.

“My name is Shintani. Shintani Shinji. Nijima-San… I think I’m scared.” Makoto kicked the knife away from Shintani and knelt to meet his eyes again.

“So are the people you attacked. So am I. I’m going to place you under arrest Shintani-san. I know the staff at the local station. You’re going to answer for what you’ve done. And I will not allow you to be brutalized for the sake of some schmuck cop’s gratification. I’m going to inform you of your rights now.” Shintani nodded, weakly. His shaking was starting to subside.

\---

Shintani was booked and the paperwork was done. Makoto was officially off-duty. Once she was out of the office, she would be on vacation. So she rolled her eyes. Shintani was not the first person she had arrested to hype himself up as an all-time tough, but “CERTIFIED! GRADE-TRIPLE-X BADASS?” That would be a high bar for future would-be muscle heads to clear. One more entry in the ledger of strange moments in her professional life. And this one was even connected to another – the eternally baffling Sensei Razor.

But for the next week, Makoto was on vacation. She’d be flying out of Haneda early tomorrow and touch down in Honolulu that evening, barring any unforeseen complications – a birthday gift from her best friends. She was thrilled. It was a chance to actually _see_ Hawaii after the utter fizzle her trip in high school had been. She had been press-ganged into chaperoning at the last minute and had to work from an itinerary that looked like it had been written on the back of a napkin and hastily photocopied. It had not been an utter disaster – she had gotten to spend time in one of the most beautiful places in the world with her favorite people. Amongst them Ren Amamiya, the “dangerous convict” who had become her beloved. But a lot of it was emblematic of the administration of Shujin Academy’s chronic inability to give a damn about the details. Now, her time would be her own. And the details were where Makoto excelled. More importantly, she would not be vacationing alone. Ren was going to meet her in Honolulu.

Their lives had gone in very different directions since the year when they’d plundered the hearts of the powerful and wicked as the Phantom Thieves. She aimed to become the Commissioner General of Japan’s national police force. And she had been working towards that goal since Shujin, step by step and round by round. Ren’s path had been less certain. He had zigged and zagged across the world during and after school. Always helping people, rarely sticking to one way to help them. Makoto still wanted to hear the full story on how he, Ryuji, and Haru had wound up luring the heads of two powerful Italian mafia families out into the open with a rubber chicken and a floppy disk.

Their relationship, the distances between them physically and ideologically, took work. It was work worth doing.


	2. Ren Amamiya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ren's life has taken him all over the globe, from its great cities to its hidden corners to its... deeply, DEEPLY dubious campgrounds. It's a good way to meet interesting people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get started, there are thanks to be given. My pal Bombcollar was kind enough to loan me their Animal Crossing island as a setting for part of this chapter. So, like Spartacus sez, gratitude. They've got a page here and they post a good amount of art on their Twitter (https://twitter.com/bombcollar). It's seriously neat work by a seriously neat person.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> PERSONA 5 is the property of Atlus. ANIMAL CROSSING is the property of Nintendo.

When a nervous teenager tried to coolly amble up to him at Gate 58, Ren Amamiya smiled at him. He recognized the kid.

“Hello again. You’re looking well,” Ren said. “It’s… Joe Ness, yeah?” As he spoke, Ren stuffed his travel mug into his backpack’s bottle pouch. The coffee would keep. Ness nodded.

“Yeah. I’m really sorry I don’t remember your name, but you were on Fyre Island, right?”

“It’s alright. My name’s Ren Amamiya. And yeah. I was one of the first responders there.” Ness’s eyes widened a little. He smiled nervously. Ren had a good idea of why.

“Can I sit down?” Ness asked. Ren nodded. Ness took the seat next to him on the gate couch. He looked Ren in the eyes.

“That…. That was real, right? I mean, like, the water was drugged, but that wasn’t the only reason for… for _that._ ”

_That_ , Ren thought, had been an attempt at mass human sacrifice perpetrated by a dead-eyed bigot and one-time political stooge who wanted to obtain superhuman powers and exact revenge on anyone who could feel anything besides hatred. He completed enough of the ritual to obtain what might have been a Persona, but he’d been stopped before he could butcher his would-be offerings. And Ren had been among the team that stopped him. They were a ragtag crew – the Washington DC journalist who had pieced together what was happening, a former Indian special forces operator, the journalist’s paramedic lover, a UFO chaser and amateur pilot and himself, the former leader of the Phantom Thieves and one of the journalist’s co-workers/ _Operation First Light_ fireteam buddies.

In the wake of _that_ , the makeshift crew had been hastily branded first responders, which was close enough to the truth – particularly since they had stuck around to give what help to the _actual_ first responders they could. Ren had pulled a few shifts in one of the recovery tents. He’d helped the newly conscious Ness and his fellow thought-they-were-concertgoers to take activated charcoal, drink water, eat oranges, and generally get themselves re-oriented with base reality.

“Yes, _that_ was real. They sent me a t-shirt. It’s awful. I love it.” Ren said. “How have you been doing since?”

“I mean, Mr. Amamiya, I…” Ness said. He gave Ren a full-body shrug. “I talk to a therapist. That helps a lot. But there’s a whole lot that I just… I don’t have the words for.” Ren nodded.

“There are things that I won’t be able to tell you about. And I’m not a licensed therapist. But if you’d like, I can give you my work email. Whatever you want to talk about, related to _that_ or otherwise, I’ll listen.”

“You’d do that?”

“What can I say, I’m a good listener,” Ren smirked. Not quite his Joker smirk, friendlier. But still acutely aware of himself and endlessly confident.

“Well then… Yes. Please. Thank you, Mr. Amamiya.” Ness said. He looked a little more cheerful now, neo-grunge flannel and all.

“Here,” Ren said. He fished a business card out of his wallet, one of the ones with the logo Yusuke had designed for him as a birthday present a few years back and handed it to Ness. The teenager took it.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, where are you going? Is something else happening?” He asked. Ren shook his head.

“Fortunately, no. I’m taking a vacation, the first really lengthy one I’ve taken in a while. Going to Honolulu to spend a week with my favorite person.”

“Your favorite person?”

“Yeah. She’s working to be the Commissioner-General of Japan’s police force, so she doesn’t leave Tokyo very often. And I don’t spend a whole lot of time in any one place. So this trip is a big deal for both of us.”

“You guys make that work?” Ness sounded surprised. Ren was used to that.

“We do. She’s my _person_ in this life. She’s worth it to the end of the stars and beyond.”

“Wow,” Ness said.

“Wow’s a pretty spot-on word to describe her, yeah.” Ren smiled broadly. Talking about Makoto had a tendency to make that happen.

“…I should get back to my gate,” Ness said. “Thank you again for the time, Mr. Amamiya. And the card.” Ness stood up, gave Ren a light bow, and sprinted towards one of the gates down the hall from 58.

Ren watched him go, remembered what he had been like a decade back, what all of the Thieves had been like.

He retrieved his coffee and took a long drink, thankful again for the research he’d done into travel mugs with Makoto on a rainy day. Thankful that she had indulged him in researching travel mugs. Thankful that she was someone who enjoyed the process of researching itself, even when the subject fell outside of her passions. Even when she had to giggle at how completely he’d taken up Sojiro’s coffee perfectionism.

She was worth the work that came with their relationship. To the end of the stars and beyond. And beyond that still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my weaknesses in writing fiction is my tendency to make everyone sound like I do. So, part of my goal with PROMISES is to push myself there. So I want to ask, how does this read? Are Ren and Makoto's voices distinct from each other? Feedback is appreciated!
> 
> NEXT: In-flight movie jokes never get old! : D


	3. Makoto and Ren, Biberkopf and Bigfoot and Tammy and the T-Rex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long, long way from California to Honolulu, so filled with dubious family movies.
> 
> It's a long, long way from Tokyo to Honolulu, so filled with gory sex farces poorly sanitized.
> 
> With thanks and apologies to Bob Mould (check out the song whose lyrics I'm mangling HERE: https://youtu.be/Kv8-ZmbyZjY).

When the plane’s PA pinged, Makoto paused _Berlin Alexanderplatz_ and looked up from her laptop. Sae, her older sister, had recommended the miniseries to her. Many of their best conversations had started with popular culture. At first, it had been a bridge on which they could reconnect after their years-long pseudo-estrangement. With time, it had become part of their normal. A way for them to regularly spend time together. And in the case of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s 15-hour study of the cultural conditions that had enabled Adolf Hitler to seize power, a good way to stay occupied on the long flight to Honolulu and sharpen her German skills. She was a way off from being able to watch German films un-subtitled, but she was getting closer.

“Hello everyone, this is the captain speaking. We hope you’ve enjoyed your flight with us so far. Arcadia Airlines is pleased to offer you a selection of in-flight movies. They’re available on the screens in front of you, or on our wi-fi if you’d prefer to use your own machine.” The captain said. He sounded bouncy. Somewhat worryingly so. Makoto hoped his co-pilot was someone lower key.

“If you’ll pardon my blatant editorializing, I’d like to recommend one movie in particular – _Tammy and the T-Rex_. It’s a really delig…”  
  


“Captain, no.” A new voice said. Whomever it belonged to was _definitely_ much mellower than the captain.

“What do you mean ‘no’ Imaishi? _Tammy and the T-Rex_ is wonderful! And how often do we show a movie that I’ve actually seen?”

“Captain,” Imaishi said. “It’s the gore cut.”

“…The gore cut?” The captain sounded genuinely confused. Makoto rested her head on her hand and continued to listen, somewhere between alarmed and amused.

“Yes, captain. _Tammy and the T-Rex_ was filmed as a gory, raunch-filled horror-comedy. It was cut down in editing to something that was theoretically family-friendly. The original edit was restored and released about eight years ago, and that’s the cut we’re showing.” Imaishi sounded deeply exasperated. Makoto made a bet with herself – that Imaishi and the Captain had had this conversation before.

“…You’re sure, Imaishi?”

“Captain, it literally says _Tammy and the T-Rex: The Gore Cut_ on the little selection screen. We’ve been over this. Repeatedly.” As Imaishi sighed audibly, Makoto resolved to treat herself to a fun keychain in the airport. That seemed fitting.

“Oh. Um. Well. This is your captain speaking everyone… It seems I need to apologize for reccommen… We’ve been on this entire time?”

The captain continued to dig himself deeper. Makoto sighed and turned _Berlin Alexanderplatz_ back on. Its antihero resumed his descent into venality. As she watched him shamble through Berlin’s streets, Makoto thought of Tokyo, whose streets she had made into her world. The city, its ebb and its flow, its pulse, was as much a part of her as her Persona. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed traveling when she could – different cities had different rhythms. Makoto thought again of her and Ren’s first trip to Honolulu. Neither of them had been able to see all that much of the city, let alone Oahu. As big a step forward as the trip had been for them as friends and lovers, she remembered individual places more than the city itself. That she had the chance to get to know it now, and with her _person_ was something to celebrate.

\---

When the sour-hearted Mr. Douglas asked the young, Bigfoot-championing boy Paul if he could join the boy and his father on vacation, Ren groaned. When Mr. Douglas was rewarded for his abrupt conversion to the side of not denying children food with a vision of the partially shaved Bigfoot, the magical Native American spirit Red Hawk and a great heaping pile of non-indigenous wildlife, Ren wanted to ask himself for a refund. But, with the credits rolling and maple-candy-saccharine music slithering into his headphones, that wouldn’t get him very far. He’d have to accept the fact that he had watched _Cry Wilderness_. All 93 insipid minutes of it.

He should have taken Morgana’s advice and watched the _Mystery Science Theater 3000_ episode instead. Or perhaps _Grizzly Man_. Or one of his computer’s photography-of-the-pacific-northwest wallpapers. Hell, he could have watched the ice melting in his ginger ale. Instead, he’d seen _Cry Wilderness_ through to the end. But when Ren committed, he committed.

Ren closed the Netflix window and leaned back in his seat, stretching. His joints cracked, and he longed for landing. Not just being on the ground, but the precise instant when the landing gear made contact with the tarmac. The brief jolt that came with it was one of his favorite sensations, up there with hitting “send” on an article’s final draft, if not quite on the level of kissing Makoto.

And it was a constant, something that he could count on regularly in a life that, admittedly, did not have as many constants as others. So the ones that he did have were precious. And after an hour and a half of improper animal handling, costumes made of re-purposed shag carpet and other nonsense, Ren wanted some grounding. He shut his laptop, folded up the tray table, and fished his backpack out from beneath the seat in front of him.

Ren stowed his laptop in the bag’s computer pocket and finagled a book from behind his clothes packing cube. William Finnegan’s autobiography _Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life_. He thumbed the book open to the title page, to the inscription written there in pen:

_To my wanderer, before our next meeting._

_For its language and for research._

_I want to know what you think._

_All my love,_

_Makoto Niijima_

Ren ran his fingers across the ink, feeling the slight change in texture where the pen had met paper. He’d see Makoto soon. Of Ren’s constants, that they loved each other and that they did the work that love required were the ones he held dearest. He flipped to his bookmark, slipped it into his fingers, and started to read. Bigfoot, partially shaven or otherwise, was nowhere to be found. Ren didn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAMMY AND THE T-REX is one of the strangest movies I've ever seen.
> 
> Putting them next to each other, I think I have a decent handle on how Makoto and Ren sound while they're on their own. The next challenge will be to see how they interact with each other.
> 
> Coming up next: A long-awaited reunion and a lot of catching-up.


	4. Ren and Makoto. Reunited and in Sync.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are few things as wonderful as being in the same place as your favorite person in the world.

Ren was standing in the line to the E Komo Mai food cart and debating whether or not to get a hot dog when his phone chirped. He checked the screen. Makoto had texted him.

_Just landed! We should be at the gate shortly. See you at the baggage claim?_

_See you there!_ Ren wrote back. He gracefully slipped out of line, did a twirl for the fun of it, and started walking towards the signs for the baggage claim. He was used to airports, to the way their foot traffic flowed, to the ways people clustered together at terminals and restaurants. He knew how they carved out the corners of the world for themselves in what was by design a liminal space. Once Ren got a feel for the flow of a place, he could get himself anywhere in it that he needed to be.

\---

When the captain gave her a short, remorseful bow as she exited the plane, Makoto nodded politely. He’d given the same bow to everyone who had disembarked before her, deeply ashamed of having recommended children watch a movie where a man was literally squashed as flat as a pancake by a horny teenager whose brain had been implanted in an animatronic t-rex. Makoto was never going to be a horror fan, but what she had caught on her isle mate’s screen was too baffling to ignore. She had bounced between _Tammy_ and _Berlin Alexanderplatz_ , fascinated as much by the dissonance between the two as she was the works themselves. And she had seen enough of _Tammy_ to know that Ren had to see it.

Makoto weaved through the airport’s crowd, stepping where there were openings, deftly navigating her small rolling bag behind her. It was a skill she had picked up during her days working as a beat cop – moving with precision and force without just barreling through people. When Makoto wanted to get somewhere, she got there.

\---

When Ren saw Makoto descending the escalator to the baggage claim, he greeted her with a long, lackadaisical wave and giant, goofy grin. She grinned back and met his wave with one of her own – poised, elegant and unmistakably giddy. Ren jogged to the escalator’s landing and met her just as she stepped off.

The first thing they did was hug. Ren’s backpack, Makoto’s roller bag, their shared jetlag - obstacles to navigate, but not hard ones. They knew how to fit together. His arms around her, her arms around him. It felt familiar and wonderful and strange and right. Ren looked up at Makoto, looked into her eyes. Deep red. Endlessly fascinating.

“Hey,” he said. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Makoto said. They kissed, tasted a hint of each other’s lives amidst coffee and plane breath.

“Hello,” Ren said when their lips separated.

“Hi. We should probably move.” Makoto said. Ren nodded and grinned, a little sheepish but mostly unapologetic.

“Yeah, we’re perilously close to causing a scene. Do you need to grab anything?” He asked, breaking away from her.

“Just the one bag.” Ren nodded and started walking towards the carousel. Makoto followed.

“Awesome. Once we’re settled in at Haru’s condo, shall we go out or eat in?”

“Hmm. I’ve read up on a few restaurants that came particularly well recommended, and at least three of them offer takeout. Why do you ask, did you have a rough flight?”

“I mean I watched an appallingly bad movie, but otherwise it was fine. Mostly I’m asking because I want to dress up for you.”

“Oh?” Makoto asked. Ren was a showman through and through. Whether he was being romantic or ridiculous, Makoto loved that about him.

“I mean, aside from this,” he said, gesturing to his current air travel business casual ensemble. “I’ve got a pretty nice shirt and tie, and I’ve also got the worst payday I’ve ever received.” Makoto raised an eyebrow at him.

“…It’s another dreadful t-shirt, isn’t it?” She said. Ren rubbed his hands together in anticipation and grinned.

“Makoto. It. Is. The. _Worst._ T-shirt. And it was supposed to be a bribe.” He was all but cackling. Makoto sighed, affectionately.

“Ok. I want to see it. And the story behind it sounds interesting too. Let’s get takeout. You can put on a show for me.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Ren said. He wound his left arm around Makoto’s right. Hand in hand, they went looking for her luggage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, our heroes interacted! I'm fairly happy with their voices so far. Do they read distinctly enough for y'all? Do they sound like themselves?
> 
> Your feedback is always appreciated. 
> 
> Next: And so starts the catching up.


	5. And oh, What a Show he Put on For Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makoto ponders one of Ren's fascinations. Ren does something ridiculous and sexy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, I once again owe thanks to Bombcollar. They designed Ren's horrible t-shirt, and generously allowed me the ANIMAL CROSSING island it hails from as a setting. If you'd like to see more of their work, check out their Twitter: https://twitter.com/bombcollar They also have an Ao3 account HERE: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
> 
> Comments are appreciated. : )

Makoto was stretching in the condo’s main room when the doorbell rang. She eased out of her Cossack stretch and strolled to the door, cracking her back as she did so. Stretching had become routine for her. On quiet days, it felt good to move. On days when she’d been in action, it felt good to have the stillness of holding a pose. And after spending most of her day on a plane, it felt good just in general.

She opened the door and faced a laid-back looking delivery driver gamely holding a bag from Noi Thai Cuisine.

“Howdy,” the driver said. “I’ve got an order here for a Niijima?”

“Yes, that’s right. Thank you,” Makoto said in English.

“Here you go,” the driver said. “One big ole’ bag of appetizers. Enjoy!” They took their leave, bidding Makoto farewell with a cheerful two-fingered salute.

“Thanks again!” Makoto said, before shutting the door. She brought the bag over to the small table in the condo’s kitchenette and indulged in a quick sniff. It smelled wonderful – spices, fried dough, vegetables wound into the promise of a delicious meal. A good way to formally kick off her vacation, now that the traveling was done. Well, a good way to kick off the vacation once Ren was done in the shower. He did like to take his time, and knowing him, he wanted to show off a little for her. Makoto was looking forward to that.

And she was curious, morbidly curious, about this latest t-shirt. Ever since the college semester he had spent in Austin, Texas, Ren had developed a deep and abiding fondness for dreadful t-shirts. Arguably ever since Futaba had gotten him an I HEART TOKYO shirt during their first run as the Phantom Thieves, though that was corny as opposed to groan-inducing. Compared to the first of the Austin shirts, a promotional item from an early screening of the utterly dire _Jack Frost_ movie, it was downright tasteful.

The _Jack Frost_ shirt replicated the supposedly chilling letters left behind by the brutal killer that troubled detective Richard Long was hunting. But, like so much else about that movie, the “chilling” letters just fell flat on their face. “Hee-ho Mister Detective,” the shirt read. “You might have saved her. I gave you so many clues.” Beneath this dubious taunt was a hastily doodled stick figure version of Jack Frost. And even when supposedly drawn by a depraved murderer, Jack Frost was cute.

It could, in theory, have been menacing. The novel the movie was adapting, which Makoto had read on a long weekend back in college, was genuinely frightening. Had it been adapted competently she would have skipped watching it. But _Jack Frost_ the movie did not belong in the same dictionary as the word “competent.” So Makoto had gone to see it. And she had been amazed. Eight years on and was still the worst film she had ever seen. Eight years on and she still had no idea why Michael Keaton was in the movie, or why he spent most of his scant screen time dancing to ska music, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t know either. Nor did she know what the United States Curling Association’s land disputes had to do with anything.

Ren had loved that shirt. Or maybe he had loved the reactions it provoked. Regardless, he wore it until it sprouted holes. Then he wore it to bed. And when it had finally become too worn even for sleep, he had mailed it to Yusuke and paid him to frame it. Currently, it hung in a place of honor on Futaba’s wall, over the shrine to Phantom Thief in-jokes she had built for herself. She and Ren, her adopted brother, had very similar senses of humor in some ways. Makoto loved them both dearly and could only shake her head when Futaba had sent her a picture.

There had been a selection of dreadful shirts since _Jack Frost_ had kickstarted Ren’s passion for them, some found in the course of his travels, some given as gifts, some that had just sort of materialized one day. _I Bought this Shirt at the Nudist Beach at Dunkirk, Defeating the Purpose of the Nudist Beach at Dunkirk._ _I PARTIED AT ACTION PARK_ , hand-painted with a caricature of Ren giving two thumbs up in a body cast. And perhaps Makoto’s favorite of them, one that read simply _DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY_. She had laughed hysterically at it when she had picked him up at the airport during his last visit to Tokyo.

Makoto had never directly asked Ren about why he was so amused by hideous t-shirts. Her personal theory was that his passion for them sprang from lingering frustrations over the way he had been treated during his time on probation. Perhaps she would ask him about it this week. If he was comfortable talking about it, she wanted to know.

“Hey,” Ren said. Makoto turned – deep in her musings, she hadn’t heard the shower shut off. Sure enough, he was putting on a show. His hair was still damp, and eternally messy as always. He was running a hand through it, brushing it out of his eyes. He had on a pair of flip flops, a pair of comfy-looking gym shorts, and the watch she had given him for their first Christmas together. He was built like a gymnast. Lithe and powerful and gorgeous. The t-shirt, infamous and mysterious, hung off his shoulder.

“I called this,” Makoto said, giggling.

  
“What can I say,” Ren said. “I _like_ showing off for you.” He twirled, graceful and goofy and unmistakably himself.

“Oh,” Makoto said. “I am _not_ complaining. But I called it.” She grinned. Ren grinned back at her.

“It’s really good to see you Makoto. Really, really good.” Ren said. Makoto nodded.

“It’s really good to see you too. I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad we have this time.”

“Me too,” Ren was quiet for a moment. They stood in the main room, comfortable in the quiet. Then Ren pulled the shirt off his shoulder. “So,” he said. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. Let’s see it,” Makoto said.

With a flourish, Ren unfurled the shirt and slipped it over his head. He pulled it down and struck a pose.

It was off-white. A stylized picture of a pile empty, rusting oil barrels dominated the chest area. Printed below it, in large, cheerful letters were the words _I’M TRASH_. He spun around, revealing that the back said _GARBAGE BEACH_.

“TA-DA!” Ren said, spinning once more to face Makoto and hamming it up all the while.

Makoto made a face. Her jaw didn’t quite drop, but it did quiver. Her eyebrows twitched.

“…if we weren’t about to eat i’d say please take it off, but our food is here,” she said, robotically.

“Oh, I know. It’s horrid and I adore it,” Ren said happily. Then, not unkindly, he asked: “Do you want me to go and change?”

“No, no, it’s ok,” Makoto said, shaking her head. “But I have questions, Ren. So many questions. Someone tried to _bribe_ you with this?”

“Yup. It’s a funny ending to a long story that could have ended very badly.” Ren said with a nod.

“If you're up to tell it, I’d like to hear it,” Makoto said.

“Absolutely. Over dinner?” Ren tilted his head towards the bag of Thai food with the question.

“That sounds good,” Makoto said. "And there are a few stories I'd like to tell you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- A lot of how I approach Ren/Joker comes from my reaction to ROYAL's good ending. Much as I adore the game, I've got mixed feelings about how it all winds down. The parts that work, they work really well. But the Thieves deserved that road trip together. Ah, well. I do like the way that living their lives to the fullest leads the Thieves to walk their own roads. They're always going to share a deep and loving bond, but this specific part of their lives, this incarnation of their crew, is done. And given Ren's experiences in the main storyline and the third semester, I'm not sure that he would ever be able to fully settle down somewhere. I see a deep restlessness in him. It's one of the things I want to explore with PROMISES.
> 
> \- Mister Police. JACK FROST is the Personaverse's version of THE SNOWMAN. If y'all like the clues I gave you here, let me know. I'd enjoy writing some more about it. Maybe a one-shot about Makoto's relationship with crime fiction.
> 
> \- Does Ren and Makoto's relationship work here? This is the first time I've written a romance.
> 
> NEXT TIME: Storytelling.


	6. The First Thing I Think About is That Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snuggling! Violence! Further Snuggling!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Bombcollar for loaning me their ANIMAL CROSSING island.

“So, someone tried to bribe you with this atrocity. Did they know about your fondness for dreadful shirts?” Makoto asked as Ren ran his right hand through her hair. They were snuggling on the big couch in the condo’s main room, flanked by a well-loved prickly pear cactus and an enormous double-bladed axe carefully mounted in a glass case. Makoto was lying on top of Ren, her right hand in his left. Ren had propped himself up slightly on the armrest closer to the cactus.

“No. They actually sent it out with a form letter. ‘Dear Mr. Amamiya, thank you for preventing a mass human sacrifice at our crummy campground. In exchange for this t-shirt, please don’t tell anyone that we’re jaw-droppingly incompetent. Thank you. Signed A. H. Schmuck. Fyre Island Chief Executive Officer” Ren’s fingers wiggled in Makoto’s hair as he spoke, tickling her. Makoto laughed. She loved when he did this.

“I’m assuming that’s a paraphrase,” she said. “And the original letter wound through an inordinate number of euphemisms to deny the very wrongdoing they wanted you to ignore.” Ren nodded. He was still smiling, but Makoto could see the weariness in it. He suddenly looked very tired. Not sleepy, but exhausted.

“Exactly. I mean, I can’t fault them for not seeing an evil arcane ritual coming. But still… An infamously bigoted asshole wants to rent out a private island for ‘a party’ for 250 teenagers and that doesn’t raise _any_ flags? None at all? Man…”

“Yeah. There’s something uniquely, infuriatingly frustrating about negligence and apathy,” Makoto said. She squeezed Ren’s hand. “I still get mad about Kureha sometimes, and she got thrown off the force years ago.”

“I think Fyre’s management was about on her level. Maybe dressed worse.”

“That,” Makoto poked the cheerful self-deprecating slogan on Ren’s shirt with her free hand’s pointer finger, “Is quite evident.” She poked the friendly rustling oil barrels. Then she let go of his hand, grabbed the couch’s armrest with both of her own hands, and pulled herself up until she was looking down at him. After a moment, she bent down and kissed him.

When the kiss broke, Ren looked into Makoto’s deep red eyes. They were his favorite of her features.

“Man, I get lost in your eyes,” he said. “They’re ruby gates to infinity.” Makoto giggled and blushed a little.

“You are a gargantuan cornball. You’re a gargantuan cornball who, without fail, knows how to make me blush.” Ren smirked at this, his confidant, knowing Joker smirk.

“Well that’s good,” he said. He reached up and pulled Makoto down for another kiss. Just before their lips met, he whispered, “Because I _love_ to make you blush.”

When they had separated, Makoto, grinning and now blushing furiously worked her way behind Ren and wrapped him in a hug. He shifted so that he could face her and started running his hand through her hair again.

“I am so fucking glad that I can laugh at the shirt,” he said, quietly. “We got lucky.” There was weariness again.

“Yeah, you said that it could have gone very badly. I know the broad strokes of what happened from your e-mails and the news. But I’d like to know more if you still want to tell me the story.” Makoto tightened her hug. Ren returned it.

“I do,” he said. Makoto watched his eyes while he gathered his thoughts. When he had them together, his greys met her reds. “It’s not the first thing that happened. But the first thing that I think about when I think about Fyre is James Stamper laughing.”

\---

When he had successfully hauled the first unconscious teenager onto his makeshift altar, James Stamper laughed. It was thin, like a wheeze that had been ironed. But between the silence of the evening, and the amphitheater’s acoustics it was amplified – the prideful screech of an empty soul. He raised the ornate knife he had consecrated with his own blood above the boy on the altar, and his laugh climbed to a cruel cackle.

Ren heard it as he leaped over the wall that separated Fyre Island’s amphitheater from its main campground. He landed on his feet, always graceful, but without his usual regard for showmanship. His thief costume had appeared, which meant he was running low on time. He raised the Glock he was carrying into the air and fired.

“STAMPER!” Ren shouted, pointing the pistol at his foe. “ENOUGH!” Stamper looked up at Ren, startled. He was a boney, sallow 30something who looked decades older, his face withered by years of gleefully insisting that racism was righteousness and sleeplessness was determination. His eyes were colorless, bottomless, pits of hunger. He wore expensive sandals with athletic ankle socks, a pair of wrinkled beige chino shorts, and an elaborate, collared cape that looked like it had been hastily sewn from old suit jackets.

“You,” Stamper said, pointing his knife at Ren. “That coat. That mask. You’re that _foreign_ Phantom Thief! Why are you here? To _steal_ what is rightfully _mine_?!” The air around Stamper shimmered, like a heat haze. Ren stared at Stamper, stared into him, and beyond him, opening his third eye. A sickly green mass, shapeless, had sprouted from the man’s back. It was congealing.

“No,” Ren said, coldly. “I came here to stop you from murdering 250 kids. Step away from the altar and drop the dagger.” Stamper snorted. The mass burbling from him in the metaverse pulsed.

“Or what, you’ll ‘take my heart?’ I am not so _weak_ as t...” Ren shot him, one bullet center mass. Stamper stumbled back. He didn’t fall, but he did scream. The mass collapsed onto Stamper like a blob of irradiated cottage cheese, but he didn’t seem aware of it. Clutching his knife in one hand, and his wound in the other, Stamper stared at Ren, shocked and furious.

“You’re not going to win today,” Ren said, advancing towards the stage. He stepped carefully around and over the unconscious concert-goers but gained ground quickly. And his gun stayed trained on Stamper. “Drop the knife.”

“But _you_ don’t kill,” Stamper hissed. “That’s… That’s one of the many ways you’re _inferior_. I will not be denied what is mine… what is mine by right! WOLVES! GET OUT HERE AND EARN YOUR KEEP!” As he shouted, the blob dripping around him hit the floor. Ren heard fast, clumsy footsteps coming towards him from all directions, but kept closing on Stamper. The blob was steaming now like it was being cooked. Stamper still did not seem to notice it.

A shot rang out, from behind Ren. A bearded white man in too-tight body armor and torn jeans tumbled to the ground, clutching the remains of his knee and howling in pain. Dhairya Jaiswal, the former MARCOS operator, was on the job. A second shot. Someone began to scream about his hand. Ren picked up speed. A hint of panic appeared in Stamper’s hollow eyes.

“What?! A sniper?” As Stamper spoke the blob began to warble, a low, ugly sound that Ren recognized all too well. Another shot, another scream.

“Bingo,” Ren said. “I’ve got style, but style only gets you so far. So I brought friends.” He leaped onto the stage, spiraling over the altar and planting himself between Stamper and his would-be victim.

“No. _No_. _NO_! I will not be denied my destiny!” Stamper screamed. He brandished the knife, reduced to hunger and rage.

“Yes. _Yes_. _YES_. This was never your destiny,” Ren smirked as he mirrored his foe. “It was just you. Being the same hateful schmuck you’ve always been. Behold, you are James Stamper, king of twerps. The mighty shall look upon your works and see a bigoted creep who ruined himself. Whose grand plans fell apart because he forgot that he wasn’t the only person in the world. After a lifetime of terrorizing people to make himself feel big.”

“No, no I am not nothing I am Stamper! I… I… GRRRAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH!!!” The blob reared upwards, hurling Stamper to the stage’s floor. It stood, and Ren saw that it was humanoid. Two legs, two arms ending in clawed hands, an eyeless face – its mouth full of pointed, rat-like teeth locked in a snarl. Beneath the ethereal slime that covered it, Ren thought he could see what looked like a raggedy greatcoat made from the same fabric as Stamper’s dopey cape. Stamper pushed himself to his feet but remained bent over at an angle. He didn’t seem to notice his wound.

“I AM! STAMPER! I AM! GRAF ORLOK! I AM! SUPREMACY! DESTINY! HUNGER, HUNGER, HUNGER!!!” He shrieked. There was an unearthly echo to his voice. Ren grimaced. He had been right about the blob. Stamper had somehow manifested a Persona – perhaps as a result of the pieces of the ritual he had performed already. And now that it was awake, it could be fought. But he’d have to work quickly. He holstered his pistol and drew his own long knife. Compared to Stamper’s it was plain. But the care with which it had been crafted was evident in the shape of the blade and the comfort of its grip.

“Yelling everything isn’t going to make you more intimidating or less ridiculous looking,” Ren said. He flourished his knife and began to circle Stamper. His eyes and Graf Orlok’s head stayed locked on Ren. Good. He had to keep the creep and his Persona away from the boy on the altar. Jaiswal’s gunfire and the screams of Stamper’s Nazi weekend warriors continued, but Ren only heard them distantly.

“You. You. You. Will. HURT! GRAF ORLOK!” Stamper charged forward, swinging his knife wildly. Graf Orlok’s claws tore through the air, leaving trails of the sickly goo he had been born from. Ren c-stepped back parried Stamper’s blade with his own. He bent backward, narrowly dodging Graf Orlok’s right claw. But the last talon of the left cut across his chest. It was ragged, and Ren felt like he had been stabbed with a rusty piece of rebar. He stepped back again. Gasped for air, but stopped himself, made the gasp turn into a deep breath. Graf Orlok knew how to hurt, and he’d probably have a scar. But knowing how to hurt was different from knowing how to win. Ren knew how to win.

“Alright, alright, alright. Kudos to you, you copyright-infringing vampire,” Ren said. “Your master’s a putz, but you… You can fight. But this isn’t amateur hour. It’s showtime!” Ren’s mask vanished in a burst of blue flame. He felt a familiar presence behind him. Raoul. The demonic cyborg master thief born from the fusion of Arsène the great thief and Satanael the rebel archangel, whom he had forged to battle a friend for the fate of reality.

“ _So_ ,” Raoul said. “ _We are to pillage the fetid dreams of a rotten heart. Splendid.”_ Ren nodded.

“Is this? What, what IS this?” Stamper wheezed. Graf Orlok snarled blindly.

“It’s curtains.”

“Curtains?”

“Curtains. And given your performance so far, there’s won’t be an encore. Raoul, _now_!” Ren snapped with his free hand. Raoul gave a suave bow and, with a dry tip of his hat to Stamper, cast his signature spell. Stamper charged, Graf Orlok’s claws flailing.

The amphitheater vanished, replaced by the depths of space. Confused, Stamper skidded to a halt. Ren smirked. The stars circled around the two men, dancing in impossible patterns. They accelerated, weaving a web of blinding light. Stamper was transfixed. Ren laughed maniacally. The web became an all-enveloping sphere, blinding but strangely soothing.

When the light faded, Ren and Stamper were back in the amphitheater. Stamper stood still, asleep on his feet even with his wound. His knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Graf Orlok vanished. Lost in his dreams, Stamper did not notice. Ren gave a short, bitter laugh, walked up to Stamper, and punched him in the face. Stamper went down.

“And like the man said, you dead-eyed fuckweasel, ‘nothing beside remains.’”

Ren knelt beside Stamper and checked his pulse. His wound needed treatment. Ren was not going to allow him to get away with what he had tried to do by dying. He pictured a deck of cards shuffling, shifted Personae from Raoul to Cybele, and cast a healing spell.

“Yo Amamiya,” Jaiswal’s voice snapped the rest of the world back into place. “What’s the word?” The operator was zip-tying Stamper’s wounded goons.

“He’ll live,” Ren said. “How about you?”

“They’ll live.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey,” Jaiswal shrugged amiably. “I got to shoot Nazis and practice my aim. We stopped a massacre and I won’t have nightmares about it. I can think of worse reasons not to kill people.” Ren nodded, grateful.

“Once we’ve got the knuckleschmucks wrapped up, we should call the others. We’ve got 250 kids who are going to wake up very dehydrated and very scared. We’re going to need help.”

\---

“When the first responders hit the beach, we made ourselves useful. And when the proper authorities arrived, the easiest answer to who we were for them was that we were first responders too.” Ren hugged Makoto tightly. “Stamper and his pet Nazis were officially tried for 250 counts of kidnapping and attempted murder. I sent the knife to Kirijo’s people. And then Fyre Island’s mysterious owners tried to buy my silence with this t-shirt.”

“If they actually knew you, they would either have sent you a carton full of them or not bothered with bribing you at all.” Makoto chuckled and gently stroked Ren’s face. “I love the way your skin feels. And you were right, you did get very lucky. I’m glad that was the case.”

“Yeah,” Ren said. “All the myriad ways it might have gone, and it went a good one. I’ll take grace where it comes. Case in point…” He kissed Makoto, tasted her through Thai food and airplane air and jet lag.

“I realize you know this,” Makoto said once the kiss had broken. “But you are quite good at that,” Ren smirked.

“I live but to serve, my Queen.” Makoto rolled her eyes.

“And I am grateful for your service in _every_ way my wandering knight. Ridiculousness and all.”

“Excellent,” Ren said. He leaned up, nibbled lightly on her neck, and whispered into her ear “Because Mako, I will _never_ stop being ridiculous. Unless you want me too.” Makoto blushed furiously and gently shoved Ren back down to the couch. She looked down at him. The tattoo on his outer right arm – a stylized depiction of the World arcana. The various scars he had picked up over the course of his adult life. Her watch, the Seiko 5 which he had worn for ten years, two straps and counting. His glorious mess of hair. His big, goofy grin. His wise grey eyes.

“Never stop being you, Ren. I command it.” Ren looked up at Makoto. Her poise, elegant even now. The muscles in her arms and legs, so powerful and so stunning. His watch, the G-Shock he had given her before she started at the National Police Academy. Her hair, always tidy, always kept in place with her braided headband. Her smile, which lit up her whole face. And her eyes. Always, always, _always_ her eyes.

“Who am I to refuse you? By your command, I am your romantic dork. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He took her hands in his. They sat together for a moment, taking in the stillness, taking in each other.

Then Ren started dancing with Makoto’s hands. Up and down. Side to side. The moment gave way to sustained giggling.

“So,” Ren said, once he’d gotten his breath back. “I wanted to turn the tables and ask about your shirt.” Makoto nodded. She was wearing an army green t-shirt, decorated with a parody of a US Marine battalion badge. “Something in Latin” was written at the top of the circle in a florid font. The center was dominated by, in the shirt’s own words, “A Dope Skull in a Spartan helmet.” The badge was rounded off by the identifier “A Battalion, Some Regiment.”

“I thought you might,” Makoto said. “There’s a story there.”

“I’d like to hear it.” Their eyes met.

“Then I’ll tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ren's extended flashback, this ended up being far and away the longest chapter of PROMISES so far. I'm fairly happy with it, though I would like to get some practice writing more open-ended fight scenes.
> 
> As far as writing questions go, I want to ask this: How does Makoto and Ren's snuggling play? This is my first time writing this sort of physical intimacy, and I want it to read as sweet and sexy without collapsing into saccharine obnoxiousness.
> 
> NEXT TIME: Makoto reenacts LETHAL WEAPON. Fortunately, Mel Gibson is nowhere to be seen.

**Author's Note:**

> There's more to come.


End file.
